#OBSESSED with him

[tex-now]

@the-weeperrrrrrr your guy (I think)

mephone 4 …..

[qualityexpertpastaland]

Like, this is levels of obsession and love that have never been seen before 😭

[raystarkitty]

Kindness Luigi :3

[verkomy]

general acacius

[pedro-reed]

Brandon Sklenar as Spencer Dutton | 1923 2x05

[vanessa-rafesgirl]

he's so gorgeous ⋆˙⟡

[beautifulplaceofyouth]

SHUT UP AND JUST KISS ME

Synopsis : Based on the main story cutscene in Skyhaven of Caleb getting mad at you as you get injured after sneaking out of the house and get attacked by wanderers so he treats your wound, talking about him getting a collar for you(which clearly doesn't happen). The argument ends with him leaving but you beg him to stay. (3.5k) Pairing : Yandere!Caleb x Reader Genre : Angst! Childhood friends to lovers! Au? Warnings : 17+ Angsty argument, a slight smut, Caleb’s protection basically means locking you up and destroying everything else, heated conversation with lot of angry outbursts, gravity evol usage for surrender, somewhat happy but hate ending? with hot makeout session against the wall (marking his territory with his teeth) and Caleb's protectiveness & possessiveness ends with his fingers inside you as a punishment (non-concessional at first) female!receiving. At the end of the day, you're his good girl. a/n : a little something so I don’t starve. I’m obsessed with him, clearly.

The audacity. The infuriating, galling, breathtaking audacity of the man.

I sat there, perched on what I’m sure was a ridiculously expensive bed in his ridiculous apartment, a monument to wealth so obscene it made my teeth ache, and simmered.

The clouds themselves seemed to mock me, pressed against the panoramic windows like a taunt. He'd flown me here in his private aircraft, his black Colonel uniform starched and pristine, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

As if I hadn't nearly been ripped to shreds by some genetic monstrosity. As if he hadn't dragged me here, bridal-style, like some… prize.

And then, the nerve. "Sit first. We need to treat your wound." An order, barked out with the same clipped authority he probably used to command troops.

"Are you ordering me right now as a Colonel, or are you worried about me as Caleb?" I snapped, the question laced with venom.

He actually knelt. Knelt in front of me, on what I assumed was a silk rug, and took my knee in his hand. His hand. The possessive, forceful grip that sent a shiver down my spine, a shiver that had absolutely nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with rage.

I tried to pull away, but he tightened his hold, his purple eyes burning into mine.

And then came the story. A story about a stray cat. A goddamn stray cat.

"When I was a kid, there was a stray cat in our backyard, and he was injured." He launched into the tale, his voice low, a deliberate attempt to soothe, I supposed.

"That cat always tried to run away when I wanted to tend him for its injuries and always came back to the backyard when no one was paying attention to him. That way he couldn't fully recover." he continued, his gaze fixed on my knee, his fingers already probing gently, assessing the damage beneath the torn fabric of my trousers.

I watched him, a knot of apprehension tightening in my chest. Where was this going? What strange analogy was he trying to draw between me and a stray cat?

"What's that got to do with this? If you're comparing me to a stray cat, I don't want to listen to this." I yanked my leg again, harder this time.

He had no right. No right to manipulate me with his childhood stories, no right to compare me to a mangy, unwanted animal.

But he wouldn't let go. A force, a damnable, infuriating force of will radiated from him, pinning me in place. His fucking gravity evol.

His glare intensified, a silent warning that brooked no argument. Pulling my leg firmly back towards him, he locked eyes with me, his gaze intense, probing. “Do you know what I did in response?” he asked, the question hanging heavy in the air, pregnant with unspoken implications.

He reached for a bag, a medical kit, and his movements were precise, controlled, infuriatingly competent. He produced a cotton pad, doused it in some antiseptic cream, and began to dab at the wound on my knee. His touch was surprisingly gentle, almost tender, considering the controlling undercurrent of his words and actions.

"I got a collar with a bell. I put it on the cat. That way, it couldn't escape me without being noisy." He glanced up, his eyes meeting mine, and I saw a flash of something that might have been guilt, but was probably just smug satisfaction.

He continued dabbing, ignoring my simmering rage. Removing the used cotton pad, he dropped it into a small metal tray on the floor with a soft clink.

His hand, warm and firm, wrapped around the inside of my knee, the casual possessiveness of the touch sending a tremor through me. “If I had that collar right now…” he murmured, his voice low, almost a whisper, the words laced with a dangerous undercurrent of implication.

His eyes dropped to his hand, tracing the curve of my knee, the slow, deliberate movement sending shivers of awareness along my leg. His touch shifted, sliding downward, his fingers brushing lightly against my skin, each contact sending a fresh wave of tremors through me.

He descended further, his hand reaching my ankle, his grip tightening, possessive. “I should make you wear it, right?” he finally asked, his gaze lifting to meet mine, the question less a query and more a statement of intent.

The air in the room seemed to thicken, charged with unspoken desires and power struggles.

I felt the tremor in my own leg, a physical manifestation of my inner turmoil. This wasn't kindness. This was a statement.

"Is this how you protect people? By gluing them to your side like pets?" The words were bitter, laced with disappointment. I balled my hand into a fist in my lap, trying to contain the rising tide of anger.

He noticed, of course. He always noticed.

He took my hand in his, his grip warm, strong, trapping me. "I know it's unfair. But…"

He reached into the bag again and produced a metal bracelet. A bracelet? Was he actually serious? He gently fastened it around my wrist, and a hologram sprang to life, displaying my health status: 'Infection risk'.

"Because of that monster, your wound got infected. Is there a way for you to run around without getting injured?" His voice was firmer now, laced with an edge of steel.

He held my hand between us, a tangible symbol of his control.

I tried to twist my hand free, but his grip was unyielding. "Why are you treating me like a stranger? I thought protecting me meant standing by my side to face danger together, not ordering me around like this."

Finally, I managed to wrench my hand away. He simply stared at me, his expression unreadable.

In a way, she was right.

He was being controlling. He was trying to dictate her actions, to limit her freedom. But was it selfish to want to protect her? To want to shield her from harm? To make sure no one hurt her like that again?

"I've had enough of your 'protection'. At least not like this." I looked down at my lap, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

He remained kneeling, his fists clenched against his propped knee. I could practically see the internal battle raging within him. He took deep breaths, fighting to keep his temper in check.

It was hard to see him like this, struggling to contain his rage. He wanted me to rely on him, only him. To trust him implicitly.

I watched him, trying to compose himself with a shake of his head and a sad scoff,” If being with me only brings you pain…then put up it with it more three days. Now, it’s not safe to run around.” The words were cold, almost to the point of rage. Standing up, he moved away from me.

"Where are you going?" The question escaped me before I could stop it. A sliver of hope, a foolish, desperate hope that he wouldn't leave, flickered within me.

He stopped, his back to me. "To tie up loose ends. And then…just try to endure it three more days 'til you can go back to Linkon."

Each word was a hammer blow, shattering the nascent hope within me. He was leaving. He was actually leaving me here.

With that cold dismissal, he started walking again, the heavy tread of his boots a death knell to my fragile composure. Away from me. The thought was a physical pain, a twisting knot in my stomach. I couldn't let that happen. I wouldn’t.

"Don't you dare," I whispered, the words a frigid breath on the air.

They were barely audible, a plea masked as a threat. But he heard me. He always heard me. The sudden, sharp halt of his footsteps was the confirmation I desperately craved.

He was listening.

I continued, the words gaining strength, fueled by a rising tide of panic and defiance. "Don't you dare walk away from me right now."

He remained silent, a statue carved from granite. But the tension radiating from him was palpable, a silent storm brewing beneath the surface.

Rising shakily from the bed, a sharp stab of pain shooting through my knee, I limped towards him. Each step was an act of rebellion, a refusal to be discarded.

His back remained stubbornly presented to me, a barricade I was determined to breach.

When I finally reached him, I stopped just inches away, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. He looked down at me, his face shadowed by the brim of his hat, the uniform casting him in an unfamiliar light.

The crisp lines and severe angles of the military garb seemed to amplify the distance between us, reinforcing his authority, his control.

But beneath the mask of duty, I saw the familiar flicker of torment in his eyes, the tight line of his lips, the furrowed brow. He was still pissed off. At me, at himself, at the world. It was something.

"Step aside. You're still hurt," he said, his voice devoid of warmth, a curt order barked from a superior officer.

I shook my head, a small, defiant gesture that felt monumental. I was done playing his games, done being a pawn in his twisted protection racket.

Stepping closer, I closed the remaining space between us. His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking furiously, as I placed my palm against his chest, feeling the rapid, frantic thud of his heartbeat beneath my fingertips. It was a fragile connection, a desperate attempt to anchor him to me.

"I don't want to argue with you right now, pipsqueak, so don't let me use my evol to make you stay put," Caleb gritted out, leaning down, his face a menacing mask.

He was trying to intimidate me, to scare me back into submission. But I stood my ground, refusing to flinch as his face drew closer, his breath hot against my skin. I knew him too well. It was a bluff, a desperate attempt to maintain control.

"You'll just lock me up again? Is that your solution to everything? Your way of controlling me?" The accusation hung in the air between us, heavy with resentment and disappointment.

"If I have to," he murmured, the words laced with a reluctant admission.

"What's the reason, Caleb? Why would you protect me like that? Do you want me to hate you? Where is my Caleb in this uniform, in this charade?” The question was a raw, aching plea for the man I knew, the man who had somehow gotten lost beneath the layers of duty and responsibility.

Caleb didn't answer with words. He stepped even closer, crowding my space, forcing me to retreat. He advanced on me, relentless and unforgiving, until my back met the cold, unforgiving surface of the wall. He pinned me against it, trapping me, his presence a suffocating weight.

He fisted his mechanical hand, the cold metal a brutal contrast against the warmth of his skin beneath the glove, and softly slammed it against the wall beside my head, the force of the impact reverberating through me. He had caged me, both physically and emotionally.

"Your Caleb has always been here. He never changed," he said, his voice low and intense, the words vibrating against my skin. "And hate me if you must, I'm doing this to protect you. Is that really so selfish of me?"

"Yes," I whispered, the word a choked sob. It was selfish. It was suffocating. It was tearing us apart.

He stared down at me, his eyes dark and unreadable. Then he laughed, a harsh, mocking sound that echoed in the confined space.

"Then I guess you'll be very happy when I disappear from your life. That way, you won't have to see me again." He began to pull back, the movement a gesture of finality, a silent severing of ties.

A sudden burst of emotion flooded through me, a torrent of fear, anger, and a desperate, terrifying longing. I couldn't let him go. I wouldn't.

Reaching out with a desperate surge of strength, I grabbed his tie, the silk rough against my fingers, and yanked him back. His towering frame bent down to my level, the sudden movement throwing him off balance. Our breaths mingled, hot and ragged, the air thick with unspoken desires and unspoken fears.

"Don't you dare leave me," I threatened, the words a desperate hiss. "I'll lock you up myself."

Caleb was momentarily speechless, the surprise evident in his widened eyes. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he reached for my nape, his gloved hand wrapping around the back of my neck, the pressure both possessive and threatening.

He brought my lips towards his in a snarl, his eyes burning into mine.

"Didn't you say you hate me? You don't want me protecting you?" The question was a challenge, a dare, a desperate plea for me to push him away.

The air crackled with tension, a volatile mix of anger, desire, and fear. But only one thought consumed me, a thought that was terrible and wrong, a thought that threatened to unravel everything. But I couldn't stop it.

"Shut up and just kiss me."

The command was a surrender, a desperate plea for connection, a reckless abandonment of all pretense.

The surprise flashed across his face, a fleeting flicker before it was swallowed by something far more intense. He didn't hesitate. He surged forward, his hand tangling in my hair, pulling my head back. His mouth crashed down on mine, a savage, desperate claiming.

This wasn't a gentle embrace, a tender expression of affection. This was anger, jealousy, a primal need to possess. It was a kiss born of frustration and desperation, a need that burned like a wildfire, consuming everything in its path. I tasted the salt of barely restrained tears on his lips, the metallic tang of blood from where he'd bitten his own tongue.

He kissed me with a ferocity that both terrified and exhilarated me. It was the same possessiveness that had always simmered beneath the surface, a protectiveness so fierce it bordered on madness.

He pulled back slightly, his breath hot against my skin. "You told me you didn't need me," he growled, his voice a ragged rasp. Then his mouth was on mine again, silencing any protest.

This time, the kiss was deeper, more demanding. He forced my lips apart, his tongue plunging inside, staking his claim. I met his aggression with a matching fervor, wrapping my arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

"But you want me, don't you?" he muttered against my lips, his voice thick with triumph and a hint of something wounded. "You want me this much."

He was right. And I was a liar. A pathetic, desperate liar. I wanted him more than I wanted air, more than I wanted my next breath. The admission choked me, a bitter pill I couldn't swallow.

"Don't," I whispered, the word barely audible.

He tore his mouth from mine, his eyes blazing as he stared down at me. "You drive me insane," he confessed, the words raw and unfiltered. "Since we were kids, you've been under my skin. Every thought, every breath… it's always been you."

He kissed me again, harder this time, conveying all of his emotions with each heated touch.

"And after those…those monsters dared to touch you…" He shuddered against me, holding me tighter, his voice cracking with barely suppressed rage. "I thought I was going to lose my mind. I wanted to tear the world apart."

He kissed me again, a desperate, pleading kiss.

"I can't stand the thought of you getting hurt," Caleb said, his voice laced with a vulnerability that both warmed and unsettled me. "And I hate that you deny me a chance to protect you. You are always pushing me away, even though I would do anything for you. You are too stubborn to see it."

“Caleb, I…”

“There will always be someone after your power. They all should just disappear,” his voice was cold as he cut me off.

His grip tightened, his knuckles white against my skin. He kissed me then with a possessiveness that bordered on desperation, and I drowned in it, meeting his passion with my own.

"I can take care of myself," I told him, even though my voice shook slightly," "It's my job, Caleb. I'm a hunter. This is what I do. I can't just hide away, letting others fight my battles."

He laughed, a harsh, bitter sound that echoed in the night. "You think you can? You nearly died out there tonight. If I hadn't come along..." His voice trailed off, and he shuddered again.

"But you did come," I said softly, reaching up to touch his face. "And I'm okay. I'm here, with you."

His eyes softened slightly, but the tension remained, a silent battle raging between his need to protect me and my need to be independent. "That's not enough," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I want you safe, always. I want you where I can see you, where I can keep you from harm. Skyhaven is not safe for you."

"And what about what I want, Caleb?" I challenged, pulling away slightly, the familiar frustration rising to the surface. "I can't just sit on the sidelines, waiting for you to rescue me. That's not who I am."

"I will protect you, whether you want me to or not, and if you still don't listen to me," his voice dropped, a dangerous edge creeping into his tone, "I will make you listen."

"What do you-"

He silenced my protests with another kiss, a kiss that was both a punishment and a promise. It was a brutal, demanding kiss, his lips crushing mine, his teeth scraping against my skin. He tasted of fear and desperation, of the wild, untamed desire that burned within him. As he kissed me, his fingers traced the curve of my hip, dipping beneath the waistband of my pants.

My breath hitched in my throat. The kiss stole my ability to think, to reason, to resist. My body responded to him instinctively, arching against him, craving his touch. I knew this was wrong, that he was trying to manipulate me, to force me into submission. But a traitorous part of me reveled in his power, in the intensity of his desire.

He pulled away slightly, his eyes dark and possessive. "I don't want to do this," he rasped, his voice thick with lust. "But you're not leaving me any choice."

Panic flared within me, a cold wave washing over the heat of desire. "Caleb, stop," I managed to choke out, my voice trembling. I pressed my hands against his chest, trying to create some distance between us, but he was unyielding, a solid wall of muscle and intent. “Please.”

His fingers continued their slow, deliberate exploration, inching lower, closer to the forbidden territory I had only dreamt of him touching. He was pushing boundaries, testing limits, and I was terrified of how easily I was crumbling.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered again, his voice a low, guttural plea that sent shivers down my spine. It was a test, a challenge, and I knew I had to pass it, for both our sakes.

"Stop," I said, the word barely audible, lost in the maelstrom of my emotions. "Please, Caleb, don't."

But my pleas seemed to fuel him, to embolden him. His fingers, calloused and strong, brushed against the lace of my underwear, lingering there, teasing, tormenting. I gasped, my body betraying me with a surge of heat and longing.

He ignored my feeble protests, his touch becoming bolder, more intimate. He knew exactly what he was doing, knew exactly how to break me down, to leave me breathless and begging for more. His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, finding the soft skin beneath, and I cried out, a small, involuntary sound that was swallowed by the night.

I had no chance to do anything when his fingers brushed my clit, a shockwave of pure, unadulterated pleasure ripping through me. My muscles clenched, my breath caught in my throat, and I was lost, completely and utterly lost, in the sensation. It was an invasion, a violation, but God, it felt so good.

"This is all your fault," he seethed, his breath hot against my ear. "You fight me every chance you get. You push me to the edge, baby. Maybe I'm pathetic, selfish, but your safety is my first priority. You have to understand that."

"Stop, ah..." I gasped, the word fragmented, lost in the rising tide of sensation.

"Too late," he murmured, his voice thick with a possessive hunger that both terrified and thrilled me.

His fingers continued their relentless assault, skilled and knowing, drawing me deeper and deeper into the vortex of pleasure. He bit my neck, hard enough to leave a mark, a tangible sign of his ownership, and I whimpered, a sound that was half protest, half surrender. I hated it, hated the way he was manipulating me, the way he was taking control. But God, I loved it too. I loved the intensity of his touch, the raw power that radiated from him, the feeling of being completely consumed by him. It was wrong, I knew it was, but I couldn't seem to stop myself from wanting more.

Finally, as the last shudders racked my body, he pulled back, leaving me trembling and breathless in his arms. He stared down at me, his eyes dark and possessive, his face etched with a mixture of triumph and regret. "Good girl," he whispered, the words a brand seared into my soul. "You're mine to protect, baby. Don't you ever forget that."

[not-lupus]

[asaemory]

Warren Kole as Jeff Sadecki YELLOWJACKETS 3.08 "A Normal, Boring Life"

[lovelymindescape]

Fuller, 1955 : Chapter 1 : "Behind the Stairs"

Summary : In the sweltering summer of 1955, a quiet, disfigured boy endures cruelty in a town that won’t look him in the eye—until one classmate begins to see him differently.

Setting: Fuller, Texas – Summer 1955

Characters: Thomas Hewitt (teen), fem!reader (classmate)

⚠️ Content Warnings: Bullying, emotional abuse, ableism, mentions of disfigurement/insecurity, emotional neglect, social ostracization, implied parental abuse (reader's background), and psychological distress.

E's Notes : my first time writing for Thomas as I just rewatched the movies and just wanted to give him a hug , ignore typos , English is not my first language

The summer heat pressed down like a punishment. Fuller, Texas, sweltered in stillness—nothing moved but the bugs and the dust, and even the breeze felt like it was sighing.

Cicadas screamed from every tree like they were warning you to turn back.

The cracked pavement steamed, the wood of the porches warped, and the sun seemed determined to bake the whole world flat.It was the kind of place where things got stuck—dreams, people, regrets.

Where even time itself seemed too tired to move forward. You were sixteen that summer, and Fuller was already wearing you thin. The days bled together with a sticky sameness, and most folks just did what they’d always done—smoked, prayed, and gossiped.

And they talked. Always about him.

Thomas Hewitt lived on the edge of town, past the slaughterhouse where the air always smelled like rust and regret. People said his mama was strange. Said his family was cursed. Said the boy had been dropped straight from Hell and landed face-first.

Freak. Monster. Mute.

You’d heard it all before, the same cruel names, passed around like cigarettes at a bonfire. You remembered the first time you saw him in school. Seventh grade, gym class. The way the boys circled him like vultures, laughing, nudging each other.

"Bet he don’t bleed like the rest of us."

"Hey, Leatherface! What’s under that hair? Rot?"

He didn’t respond. He never did. But you remembered the way he flinched. It wasn’t like he didn’t hear them—he did.

He just took it. Like a rock to the back of the head. Over and over.

Sometimes they cornered him behind the school.

Sometimes they threw gum in his hair.

Once, someone spat in his lunch.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t yell. He didn’t even run. He just stayed quiet. Eyes low. Shoulders curved in like he was trying to fold himself out of existence. That summer, you started noticing more. You’d see him walking alone past the fields when the light dipped low, carrying rusted metal and wood scraps.

You wondered where he went, what he made with it. Once, you saw him digging something behind the fence behind the slaughterhouse.

Always alone. Always quiet.

There were stories, of course. There always are in towns like Fuller. Stories that he was born wrong. That he didn’t have a tongue. That he’d killed a dog with his bare hands. You didn’t believe that last one. Not after what you saw behind the school one day in late June.

You’d stayed late to pick up a library book. The halls were empty, sun painting long shadows across the tiled floor. As you passed by the back stairwell, you heard it—muffled grunting.

Then a thud.

You peeked around the corner.

Three boys.

Laughing.

Thomas, on his knees.

Blood on his lip.

"C’mon, make a sound, freak. Bark or something. Ain’t you supposed to be part animal?"

Another kick. Your stomach turned. You froze. But then something happened. One of them ripped the bandana he wore around his head—Thomas’s way of keeping his hair low, his face hidden—and exposed the left side of his face.

You caught a glimpse of the scarred skin, the twisted jaw, the deep lines that pulled like rope burns. He scrambled to hide it, hand flying to his cheek, body curling in. They laughed like it was the funniest thing they’d ever seen. You didn’t know what made you do it—maybe the look in his eyes. But you stepped into the hall.

"Coach is coming!"

They scattered like roaches. Thomas didn’t move. You knelt beside him. "You okay?" No answer. He wouldn’t look at you. His eyes stayed on the floor. You reached out slowly. He tensed when your fingers brushed his wrist. "They’re assholes. All of them." He flinched at the word, but not like he was scared. More like he didn’t believe it. He pulled his bandana back over his face, stood up without a word, and walked away. But something changed in your chest that day. Some slow, warm coil of empathy twisted into place.

Because for the first time, you didn’t just know about Thomas Hewitt.

You saw him.

You saw the bruises. The silence. The shame.

And that summer, the hottest on record, felt suddenly different. Like it might be the beginning of something.

Continued : Chapter 2 - The Library

[dangerousstrawberryshark]

How it’s going at the moment.

[ravenclairee]

SAM REID as THE VAMPIRE LESTAT — Interview with the Vampire S3 Teaser

[big0oof]

✏️🏝️💕

I haven’t really drawn traditionally in such as long time, and since my parents gifted me a sketchbook for my birthday, I thought it would be a fun start to draw my marido on it along with some anatomy/muscle practices 💕

[draculasfavoritewife]

Distracted

Summary: When Frank calls you during a mission after an extended period of radio silence, what could possibly make him break his own no-contact rule?

Pairing: Frank Castle x fem!Reader

Warnings: Some language; this is practically just phone sex in every way except for me explicitly stating so ;)

I think I just need to accept at this point that my Frank fics will always get away from me in the end. This one started on the 🤭 side of the scale and by the time I reached the end it had somehow reached unprecedented levels of 🥵. In any case, I love the idea of normally taciturn Frank missing talking to reader and just calling her up out of the blue to tell her that. And then I guess everything just devolved from there, as it so often does.

When you answered your phone, your heart was pounding so hard it felt like it was trying to escape from your body right through your chest wall.

He never called.

Had something gone so horribly wrong that he needed to say goodbye?

"Frank?!"

"Hey there, pretty girl." His voice sounded bone-tired, but warm with affection, and your panic started to subside. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"It's okay," you had murmured. "You just know how I worry."

"I do." The rough laugh on the other side of the line turns your insides into a melting mess. "Just needed to hear my girl's voice for a minute. Long day."

You lie back on the bed again, letting out a quiet breath of relief.

"I miss you, tough guy."

He hums wordlessly in acknowledgement, and you can imagine him settling back against a wall somewhere, finally letting his overexerted body relax.

"Tell me what you're wearing?"

He sounds softer now, almost a little hesitant. "I wanna picture what you look like right now."

Heat rushes to your face. "Nothing special. Just one of your shirts I uh...'borrowed'. I hope that's okay."

There's silence for a moment on the other end, then a sharp hissing sound that you imagine must be him sucking in a breath between his teeth.

"Shit, baby, lookin' like that without me there to see it? You know how I feel about you wearin' my stuff. Goddammit."

You smile and stroke the threadbare fabric between your fingers. "I know, Frank, I'm sorry. But it smells like you, and I missed you so bad today. It helps me sleep at night when you're not here with me."

He chuckles softly, a deep rumbling that you feel all the way in the pit of your chest even through the phone's less-than-ideal sound quality. "Alright, alright. Which one?"

"Black. Slightly thicker fabric, buttoned collar." You tap the worn-smooth buttons with your fingertips as you say the words, an unconscious fidgeting habit.

"That old one with the holes in the sleeves?" He's way too good at this, guessed exactly which piece you would've taken refuge in during his absence.

"Damn, Frank," you breathe out, shocked at his accuracy. "How'd you tell?" He does own at least four different shirts that match the brief description you'd given.

You hear him grunt, probably a blend of approval and the soreness that comes from doing god-knows-what for the past few days. "You like that one. Only reason it's still in the closet, to tell the truth. Would've thrown it out a long time ago otherwise."

A flood of memories rushes through your mind: cuddling up to him, in bed, on the couch, his hands in your hair and his lips brushing your forehead, warm and safe in the folds of this very same shirt. "I'm really glad you kept it, then."

"I am too." A long sigh, and the rustling sounds of his large body shifting position. "Your hair up or down?"

The warmth rapidly returns to your face. Is what you think is happening actually happening?

You wouldn't have guessed Frank was an over-the-phone kind of guy, he prefers to be hands-on in every aspect of his life, but the two of you had spent so much time together lately, maybe the separation is getting to him, too.

"It's down. I took a shower earlier and wanted to let it air dry for a bit." Your voice comes out soft, vulnerable as you answer him and lean further into the pillows behind you.

"Mmm. You know if I was there I'd help you get all the tangles out, yeah?"

You shiver at the thought of his big hands in your hair, those long, dexterous fingers patiently combing their way through, their passage sometimes halting where your comb had missed a spot. "You say that now, Castle, but how do I know you wouldn't be putting more tangles in?"

His taken-off-guard laugh rasps in your ear. "Hey now, you watch that pretty mouth of yours. Don't taunt me like that." A brief moment of consideration, a heavy pause as he imagines you on top of him, that damn shirt swallowing your figure and your teasing face looking down into his. "Maybe I would."

"Thought so." You stick the fingers of your free hand through the aforementioned holes in his shirt. "I hate this bed, Frankie."

"Yeah? Why's that? Don't be a smartass now, I practically built that bed for you."

"It's too big and empty without you." You channel all of the sad, bratty tone you can possibly muster into that simple sentence.

"Christ."

You're not quite sure if the strain you hear running beneath his voice comes from exhaustion or something else you're starting. "My girl's lonely there all by herself, huh?"

"Yeah. I need you to come back, Frank."

"Shit, I know, Sweetheart. I know. I need you, too." His breath hitches, barely noticeable but you know him, and you catch it.

"You lonely without me too, tough guy?"

He hums, a non-answer, deliberately drawing the conversation out. "Look, I like bashing faces in as much as the next guy, but the people I'm after are a little bit lacking in the affection department."

You put the phone down, switching it to speaker mode and settling into a better position. "So you're touch-starved, is what I'm hearing."

You know he must be scowling and shaking his head at the accusation on the other end of the line. "Nah, I wouldn't say that, exactly --"

"Well I am." Your admission comes out as little more than a breathy sigh. "Do you have any idea how hard that is?"

He only snorts at that, and you feel gratified that the implication landed.

"I can't even watch TV at night without wishing your hand was here resting on my thigh like usual," you tell him wistfully.

A long, huffed-out exhale precedes his next words, and you grin wickedly at the sound. "Yeah, Sweetheart. I miss how you count all my scars when we're just lyin' in bed and neither of us can sleep."

"You got any new ones for me?"

The unsteadiness is completely impossible to keep out of your own voice now as you close your eyes, remembering how it feels when his hands are the ones touching you instead.

"Probably." A sharp intake of air interrupts him for a brief moment. "Not gonna tell you where, though. I'll let you find 'em all on your own when I get back."

Your entire body shudders violently at such an invitation. "I will, Frankie. I'll find all of your new scars, I promise. I'll kiss 'em for you, too -- maybe even bite 'em, if they're in good places."

"Shit."

There's a sudden vacuum left in the air between you after his sharply spat expletive, only the uneven rhythm of two people dozens of miles apart trying to catch their breath breaking the delicate silence. You pick your phone up again and bring it close to your face so you can hear his breathing right in your ear; if you keep your eyes shut, you can almost imagine he's right there in the bed with you.

"You're dangerous, you know that," he mutters after a bit. "Got me all distracted out here like some asshole amateur."

"Hey, you called me," you point out, warmth pouring into your contrary words. "I know you're not completely naive, Castle."

"Ah, get off my ass. Was a momentary lapse in judgement, s'all. Happens to the best of us."

"Mmhmm." You trace a small heart on the blanket next to the phone. "Right. Well, you better get back here soon then, and avoid any more mistakes like this, huh?"

"I will." His promise is gentle, but steel-hard with sheer conviction underneath.

"Won't be long, baby girl. Can't wait to have you with me for real again."

[antiquesintheattic]